


It's Us

by cable69



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cable69/pseuds/cable69
Summary: Everyone handles breakups differently. When Spock and Uhura broke up, Spock spent three solid months meditating and Uhura destroyed nine different punching bags across seven gyms. The first time Kirk got out of a long-term relationship, he moved to Singapore. Bones joined Starfleet. Scotty stole three cows and barely escaped a felony charge. Chapel slept with seven people in two days. Sulu let twenty-six beaux-rogue red-death nettles sting him and spent six and a half days in the hospital. Chekov had never experienced a major breakup because he was, in Bones’s words, “a fetus.” Gaila, outdoing everyone, had been forced to flee her home planet after her breakup due to having accidentally set the Grand Presidential Palace of Orion on fire.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34





	It's Us

**Author's Note:**

> My original author's note for this was "A break-up comedy!" It was definitely meant to be funnier. Also, finished, which it is not, but I'm doing some archive-clearing, so I figured I might as well post this because I really like what I have.

It took four Level Six security guards to pour Kirk into the detox bin but just one of Bones’s angry fingers to stab the button.

“We’re trying to help,” Chapel explained through the helicopter glass. Kirk stuck his tongue out at her and kept trying to take the bin apart from the inside with his left shoe. Bones rubbed his chin thoughtfully and turned the dial to thirteen. “That’s not dangerous?” Chapel said uncertainly.

“It’s a little dangerous,” Bones admitted. “But he almost busted a hole in the viewglass so I’m not too worked up.”

Chapel nodded. “Seems fair.”

Later, Chekov told them that nobody’d had to put an active-duty Starfleet captain in the detox bin since the Orion Slave Girl Incident of Aught Nine. “Then again, where’re th’ statistics on th’ last time an active-duty Starfleet cap’n broke up with a Vulcan? Cuz that’s got t’be rare too,” said Scotty.

“I thought Spock broke up with  _ Jim _ ,” said Uhura.

“The situation is unclear,” said Sulu. “Nyota has a point. Why would Jim break up with Spock?”

Uhura blinked at him. “Why were they even together in the first place?”

“Darling, you’re a little biased,” Chapel said to Uhura.

“Darling, you’re a little out of line,” said Uhura to Chapel.

Bones rolled his eyes and ordered a bottle of Borg gin for the table. Things went downhill from there.

x

Everyone handles breakups differently. When Spock and Uhura broke up, Spock spent three solid months meditating and Uhura destroyed nine different punching bags across seven gyms. The first time Kirk got out of a long-term relationship, he moved to Singapore. Bones joined Starfleet. Scotty stole three cows and barely escaped a felony charge. Chapel slept with seven people in two days. Sulu let twenty-six beaux-rogue red-death nettles sting him and spent six and a half days in the hospital. Chekov had never experienced a major breakup because he was, in Bones’s words, “a fetus.” Gaila, outdoing everyone, had been forced to flee her home planet after her breakup due to having accidentally set the Grand Presidential Palace of Orion on fire.

Jim Kirk had been in four long-term relationships over the course of his life. Singapore had been caused by Esmerelda Yi and her decision to pursue a career as a geologist on Titus IX, which was a fair enough life choice to make on her part, and as such, easiest to get over. By the time Kirk got back to San Francisco, he had a singularly intense relationship with an (in hindsight) incredibly selfish and, actually, kind of evil half-Bajoran named Uki Khu’n under his belt. Then Macy Uumu had left him for her ex-husband’s ex-wife, which had been so horrible that he only watched action movies and consumed ice cream for five months. 

All of those breakups had been devastating. But breaking up with Spock had been so far beyond those experiences that it was as if he really was in a whole new galaxy of despair.

Kirk lowered himself into the hot tub. He was on deck nine in the middle of delta shift. Everyone else would be asleep—or at least, that’s what he was counting on to get an hour or so of steaming solitude. He was trembling, because he wasn’t trying to hold it in anymore. It was starting to worry him a little. He had been trembling for six days and nine hours—since the breakup. 

Fate hated him: as soon as he got really comfortable in the tub, as soon as his fingers got a little raisin-y and his muscles had begun to uncramp, Spock walked in.

First, he thought:  _ This was inevitable.  _ Then, he thought:  _ I’m going to cry in front of him  _ again. Finally, he thought:  _ Honestly, fuck this. Just fuck it. Fuck everything _ .

“Hey,” he said.

Spock had halted, rock-solid, in the doorway, which was now very gently trying to get him to move so it could close and keep the steam sealed in. “Greetings,” Spock said, the faintest line between his brows.

“Come in. It’s fine,” said Kirk, gesturing to the rest of the tub. “There’s plenty of room.”

Spock hesitated visibly. Kirk’s stomach went cold. The last time he’d seen that look, the next thing Spock had said was: “This is not working out.”

“I would rather not,” said Spock. He was greener than usual, and maybe thinner. Kirk could hardly tell through the steam. “Good evening, Jim.”

And he turned around and left.

Kirk slid under the water and seriously considered drowning himself.

x

He’d figured it out about seven months ago, right after a horrible mission in the Hembalian system. They were exhausted, but there was always a metric ton of post-mission paperwork to finish. They were holed up in his quarters. Spock had been laying next to him, a PADD propped up on his hip, approving report after report.

“Look at this, Jim,” he said, sending a Q&A with one of the security officers over to Kirk’s PADD. “Lieutenant M’hersa reversed the 28th and 29th.”

Kirk skimmed the report. The summary of the 28th described ionosphere patterns that seemed indistinguishable from those described on the 29th. Kirk tried to muster up some memories of his astrometerology classes, but all he could recall was the ass on the Betelgeusian who sat in front of him. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “All I remember was that the sky was pinker on the 29th.”

Spock blinked. “I will send it to her for revision.”

“It’s not that important,” Kirk said. 

The air went sharp. “Of course it is important,” snapped Spock. “How many times must we have this discussion?”

Kirk slammed his PADD down on the nightstand. “A million fucking times, Spock. It’s not goddamn important. It’s a waste of her time to rewrite that. We weren’t even in this damn system for ionosphere readings. It’s sideline information!”

“Jim, you  _ know _ that these details could be extremely important in the future.”

“Spock,  _ you _ know that nobody can plan for every single damn thing. You’ve got to let go every once in a while.”

Spock got up. “There are only so many times I can tell you that minute attention to safety and statistics keeps six hundred and seventy-four people alive on a day to day basis.”

“There are only so many times I can tell you that it’s not even worth being alive if you can’t tell the forest from the trees!”

Spock stood up and hit the panel on the door and then paused. The glow of the hall lights shone through his thin ears. His eyes sat in sunken black semicircles.

“Many people have told us that we have extraordinary chemistry,” he said. “Our strengths and our weaknesses fit like hands linked together.” He took a breath. “Jim, my hands are tired. I find it difficult to continue to care about how well they fit when my joints need rest.”

“Fine,” said Kirk. “Fine.” He got up. He realized, distantly, that neither of them had bothered to take off their uniforms. He went to his desk and stood in front of it, facing away from the door. Heat grew in the corners of his eyes but he absolutely, fundamentally refused to let Spock see. “Take a break. God knows I don’t care either.”

He knew—because he  _ knew _ Spock, knew the way Spock’s spine tightened when an anomalous readout appeared on the main sci station screen, knew the very slight nostril flare that meant Spock was amused—he knew that Spock, behind him, had raised his left eyebrow. He knew that Spock’s lips were stiffened into a line and that the muscles in his shoulders were tense and high.

Spock didn’t move. Why didn’t he leave? Kirk’s breathing began to get away from him. The heat at the corners of his eyes kept coalescing into distress that rolled down his cheeks. Finally he clenched his fingernails so hard into his palms they cut. “Just _ go! _ ” he yelled.

He figured it out when he heard the door close, when instead of betrayal, he felt bright, balmy relief.

x

Spock’s distressing yet highly illuminative habit of leaving rooms in a Significant Manner had always been one of the markers of the status and health of their relationship. At first, he was very slow to leave rooms, and he made big eye contact while doing so, which was about as close to blowing Kirk kisses as he’d ever get. Then it was purposeful egress—the big eye contact became significant rather than lengthy. He’d get that crease in his brow, the good one, and Kirk would feel all warm. It was the sort of post-honeymoon, this-is-still-going-well-but-we’re-having-literally-a-quarter-of-the-amount-of-sex look that still made Kirk’s heart hum. 

When they fought, Spock would leave rooms with the bad crease in his brow, the one that was accompanied by a muscle locked solid in the lower half of his jaw. Sometimes the locked jaw muscle was on the other side, which meant more  _ sadness _ than  _ anger _ , and sometimes there was a slight eye tightening that signified  _ disappointment _ . Eventually the look evolved into  _ resignation _ . Kirk didn’t figure that out until the day before the break up, and then he realized that he had seen that look almost exclusively for the past year. 

Kirk had, purposefully, because he didn’t need to develop further PTSD, already forgotten most of the details of the break up. It had taken hours. The gist of it was written on a Post-It note that he had written himself that morning to psych himself up. The Post-It read:  _ It’s not you. It’s not me. It’s us _ . He had pushed it across the table at Spock like an ancient businessperson trying to make a deal. Spock had read it. He’d gotten the resigned look. Most of the rest was fog.

x

  
  



End file.
